


The Last Song I'll Write About You

by WhoNatural



Series: Howlnatural's Tumblr Fic [9]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Celebrity, Celebrity Crush, Former High School Crush, Jock Stiles, Lydia Martin & Stiles Stilinski Friendship, M/M, Musician Derek, Oblivious Stiles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-03
Updated: 2014-08-03
Packaged: 2018-02-11 13:25:59
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,890
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2069928
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhoNatural/pseuds/WhoNatural
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"So his face sells records, is what you’re saying," she says, and yeah, he’s been talking about the jerkwad for most of his lunch break, but that’s no reason for her to get that glint in her eye. “You must think it’s a pretty marketable face, if it can make someone’s debut album go triple-platinum in the span of two months.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Last Song I'll Write About You

**Author's Note:**

> anonymous asked: If you're taking prompts, can you do a sterek where derek is a famous musician and is a total ass to stiles when they first meet?
> 
> Title from I Feel Better by Frightened Rabbit, because 80% of their songs make me want to write fic.

"They do say you should never meet your heroes," Lydia says, but it’s in that completely  _bored with everything_ tone he just  _knows_ signals that he’s lost her interest and has entered ranting territitory. He’s choosing to ignore it.

“ _Please_ ,” he scoffs, tearing off another piece of his bagel and chewing it like it’s Derek Hale’s stupid symmetrical bottom lip. “That John Mayer rip-off is hardly a _hero_. It just wouldn’t kill him to be nice to the little people - in the fucking town he grew up in - rather than acting like he’s the second coming of Bob Dylan.” He swallows the bite before she can reprimand him for talking with his mouth full - _again._  ”It’s pretty fucking obvious his face is eighty percent responsible for his success, rather than the stupid angsty shit he peddles to the masses.”

Lydia eyes him from the rim of her latte and takes an extended sip.

"So his face sells records, is what you’re saying," she says, and yeah, he’s been talking about the jerkwad for most of his lunch break, but that’s no reason for her to get that _glint_ in her eye. “You must think it’s a pretty marketable face, if it can make someone’s debut album go triple-platinum in the span of two months.”

"I’m sure the paparazzi photos of him jogging shirtless after he was spotted being Zachary Quinto’s rebound didn’t hurt.”

"You saw those, huh?" Lydia says, and Stiles feels himself flush. It’s totally anger turning his ears pink. Shut up.

"He’s from Beacon Hills. _Everything_ he does is common knowledge.”

"Including shirtless jogging.”

"He was in tiny red shorts," he grouses back, "it was practically indecent."

"And completely not the reason you left for work this morning in such a rush that you forgot your apartment keys," she says, depositing them on the table with a triumphant little flourish. Stiles snaps them up and avoids her eyes.

"The dude’s also been photographed wearing a _The Riot Before_ shirt. They’re like, one of the best bands that broke up before their time of the past five years.” He juts his chin defiantly. “I was just interested to know if he’s actually a fan, and just sings his stupid pop shit for the paycheck.”

"Mmm-hmm," Lydia says, before swiping the unlock screen on her phone. "Well you better get back to hating him in person, since your lunch break ended six minutes ago and his signing is just about to start."

….

Derek’s skin is humming.

He’d like to think it’s being back here, doing a record store signing, of all things (and _of course_ Beacon Hills still has a record store, it just _would_ ). Or meeting ‘his public’ - Erica’s words,  _never_ his - but he’d be lying to himself. Badly.

No, because Derek’s life is just fate exercising its simultaneous desire to fuck with him and give him exactly what he asked for (the fact that the record deal he fought tooth-and-nail to get came in the form of a contract that makes his biggest rival Bruno Mars is a testament to this), the first Beaconite he encounters is Stiles Fucking Stilinski.

Stiles, with his stupid Disney eyes and perfect mouth and infuriatingly endearing moles scattered across his pale skin. Stiles, with his dark wit and sharp sense of humour and deceivingly broad shoulders. Stiles, who, despite being a year behind Derek in high school, managed to be the subject of  _a lot_ of his pubescent dreams (and subsequent sexual discovery).

Yeah, Derek remembers Stiles alright.

Stiles, who was practically joined at the hip to the fucking McCall kid, infatuated with fireball Lydia Martin, and so intimidatingly attractive that the mere memory of trying to strike up a conversation with him gives Derek palm-sweat.

Stiles didn’t know Derek existed, and yeah, two songs on Derek’s first EP were written about him.

So it just stands to reason that the first time the guy actually acknowledges him (well, longer than the time it takes to yell a  _heads-up_ from across the lacrosse field when Derek almost got brained by an errant ball), he freezes. 

Just, outright freezes.

Stiles is there, hair all grown-out and fluffy and looking fucking edible, giving him a warm smile and welcoming him to the store, even offering to _show him around,_ and all Derek can grit out is a curt  _no_ and then disappear back out to his tour bus.

Well, that worked until Erica tracked him down and forced an explanation out of him. Now he’s circling around main street, trying not to get recognised, and hoping he can engineer a chance encounter in which he can string a fucking sentence together.

It’s ridiculous. Derek gets fourteen marriage proposals a week, for fucks sake. He’s not sixteen anymore.

But he feels it, the moment he’s passing in front of the nearest Starbucks and sees Stiles getting a kiss and a hug from Lydia fucking Martin. He feels like he’s right back in high school, pussying out of asking Stiles to Homecoming, only to go stag and watch from the shadows as Stiles slowdanced with Danny Fucking Mahealani.

Because  _of course._

His phone’s vibrating in his pocket anyway, and he’s pretty sure he’s running late for the signing, so he tamps down on the deep-gutted disappointment and turns back.

The set and signing is a blur. Mainly because Stiles sits on the shop’s counter, right in Derek’s line of vision, eating Twizzlers and texting. Like he doesn’t give a shit.

Of course he doesn’t. It’s not like getting a record deal and selling a few albums will magically make Stiles want him. He’s not even sure he’d be happy about it if it did. Still.

The crowd eventually filters out enough for Boyd to start lugging out the amp and guitars, and Derek gets a  _look_ when he goes to help. He was kind of just searching for something to do with his hands, anyway.

He’d still be looking, if he didn’t turn around to find Stiles squinting at him, half a Twizzler hanging out of his perfect pink lips.

"For someone who gets paid an obscene amount of money to do this," he says, still chewing, "I can’t say you looked particularly happy during any of that."

Derek shrugs, taking a step back, because Stiles is so close he can smell his cologne and it’s making Derek have  _needs._

"My last album was a contract obligation," he gruffs, and wow, that was almost an actual sentence. "They’re not exactly groundbreaking songs."

Stiles’ brows rise, and he considers Derek for a moment, like something’s been confirmed.

"So, unlike _Triskele?_  I read that you wrote most of that in senior year of high school, and it’s actually pretty damn solid for a debut. Just makes me wonder who  _Whiskey_ was about.” His eyes widen slightly, like he wasn’t expecting to give so much away, and Derek’s kind of punched-through to have the subject of one of his most personal songs  _ask him about it._

"I mean, I just ask ‘cause I went to the same school. I mean, obviously, it’s not like there are lots of options around here, but… I wasn’t, like _prying_ or anything, it’s just ‘cause I doubt you’d even remember me, I was kind of—”

"Number 24, second-string lacrosse," Derek blurts out, before he can even stop himself, and now it’s Stiles’ turn to freeze. He rears back a little and cocks his head.

"You were like, a whole year ahead of me, dude," he says thoughtfully, "how could you even know that?"

Derek clears his throat and tries for a shrug. Was it always this fucking  _stifling_ in here? His heart is thudding. 

"I… Lacrosse was kind of a— I mean, I worked for the school paper sometimes. Reviews and shit," he deflects, clutching at something plausible. "How’s Lydia doing?"

His editor at the time, and of course the bane of his life since her presence always came packaged with Stiles’ hovering around like a lovelorn puppy.

"She’s good," Stiles says brightly. "She’s actually engaged, they’re just waiting for Jackson’s latest tour in Afghanistan to end."

Derek halts. “Jacks— Whittemore?” he asks, because suddenly everything is looking askew and there’s so much else he has to think about, now. Like that tiny bloom of relief that’s veering dangerously towards hope in his chest.

Stiles nods. “Yeah, I’m actually staying with her for summer while he’s gone - she’s kind of a terrible roommate but at least the rent hasn’t crippled me,” he says fondly, and oh.  _Oh._

"So you two - you’re not dating?" Derek asks, and oh my god, _just shut up now._

Stiles cocks a brow before he splutters out a laugh. “Me and Lyds? Jesus, no. Maybe back in high school I would have broke into song at the prospect, but no… we’re just friends. And we go to the same college. Just.. summer, y’know?”

"Yeah," Derek says, and the conversation dies while he scrambles for something else to say, something else to gage Stiles’ interest when he  _finally_ has it.

"So I was wondering—" Stiles says, just as Derek mumbles an "Are you—"

They both stop, and Stiles lets out a bashful little laugh and runs a hand through his hair. Derek questions everything about his sanity that he’s wondering what it feels like - and not for the first time today.

"You go first," he offers, and Derek shakes his head, because he’s already kicking himself for even thinking about asking  _are you seeing anyone right now._

"I was just gonna say that _Brinkles_ is still open, if you felt like getting something you’ll hate yourself for eating tomorrow. It’s still as good as ever.”

Derek’s heart jumps, and he’s kind of ashamed to say he just gapes like a fish for a second because  _Stiles Fucking Stilinski_ just implied that they go somewhere. Together.

It must be too long, because he holds his hands up and says. “Or not, I mean, you’ve probably got a fucking personal trainer and a nutritionist and—”

"I’d love to," Derek blurts, and Stiles’ mouth snaps shut.

"Oh," he says, before a blinding smile breaks over his features. Looking at it is like puppies are dancing around in Derek’s fucking head. "Well, cool. They still have an open mic thing which can be pretty awesome and their wings are like sex on a plate and.. I have no idea why I’m still trying to sell this to you when you’ve said yes, uh.."

He bites his lip and Derek’s stomach flip _s_.

"No.. I… yeah. That’d be great. To, uh, see the old place again. With company."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

They kind of stare at each other for a moment, until Boyd comes back in, breaking whatever peace had descended between them, and Derek feels sparks blooming under his skin; the prospect of spending a whole evening with Stiles doing funny things to the pit of his gut.

Stiles coughs and takes a step away, turning, and Derek falls into step beside him, like a magnet to his long limbs and solid stance and the fucking aura of him.

It’s exhilarating, until Stiles casts him a look.

Just a shy, mischievous thing from the corner of his eye, and says, "So that one song.. _Twenty-Four.._.”

And Derek seriously considers just jumping out the closed window.


End file.
